A Man and His Money eBook

Miss Dalrymple had seated herself at the piano; her
fingers—­light as spirit touches—­now
swept the keys; a Debussey fantasy, almost as pianissimo
as one could play it, vibrated around them. Outside
the whir! whir! of the skates went on. A little
girl tumbled. Mr. Heatherbloom regarded her;
ribbons awry; fat legs in the air. The music continued.

“You may go,” said a severe voice.

He aroused himself to belated action, but at the door
he looked back. “I’m sure it will
be all right,” he repeated to Miss Van Rolsen.
“On my word”—­more impetuously.

At the piano some one laughed, and Mr. Heatherbloom
went.

“Why on earth, Aunt, did you want to keep him
two weeks longer?” he heard the girl’s
now passionate tones ask as he walked away.

“For a number of reasons, my dear,” came
the response. “One, because he wanted to
leave me in the lurch. Another—­it will
be easier to keep an eye on him until Naughty is returned,
or”—­her voice had the vindictive
ring of a Roman matron’s—­“this
person’s culpability is proven. Naughty
is a valuable dog and—­”

Mr. Heatherbloom’s footsteps hastened; he had
caught quite enough, but as he disappeared to the
rear, the dream chords on the piano, now louder, continued
to follow him.

CHAPTER VII

DEVELOPMENTS

That night, as if his rest were not already sufficiently
disturbed, a disconcerting possibility occurred abruptly
to Mr. Heatherbloom. It was born in the darkness
of the hour; he could not dispel it. What if the
person in whom he had confided in the park were not
all she seemed? He hated the insinuating suggestion
but it insisted on creeping into his brain. He
had once, not so long ago, in his search for cheap
lodgings, stumbled upon a roomful of alleged cripples
and maimed disreputables who made mendicancy a profession;
their jibes and jests on the credulity of the public
yet rang in his ears. What if she—­his
casual acquaintance of the day before—­belonged
to that yet greater class of dissemblers who ply their
arts and simulations with more individualism and intelligence?

Mr. Heatherbloom sat up in bed. Naughty might
be worth five or even ten thousand dollars. He
remembered having read at some previous time about
a certain canine whose proud mistress and owner was
alleged to have refused twenty thousand for him.
The perspiration broke out on Mr. Heatherbloom’s
face. Was Naughty of this category? He looked
very “classy,” as if there couldn’t
be another beast quite like him in the world.
What had been the twenty-thousand-dollar mistress’
name; not Van—­impossible!